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Vermin
Today has been a most excellent day. A most excellent day indeed. It must’ve been around midnight, and I was stalking the back alleys, scanning the dirty street corners and dishevelled parking lots through the rain. It was windy too, that kind of wind that just cuts straight through you no matter how many layers you wear. Windy enough so that the rain tilted at an angle and sneaked its way into the city’s crevices where the street people could be found. There wasn’t a dry spot to be seen, even under the withered balconies where they loved to squat. I had barely walked a mile from my flat when I found one huddled up in the doorway of some decrepit old shop across the road, shaking and clutching his legs to his chest. I didn’t blame him for that. The cold was particularly strong that night, and even in my padded coat and storm trousers, I was shivering something fierce. What he must’ve felt like in tatty denim I dread to think. So, I crouch down in front of him, right? And he has this look on his face, this tired, half-asleep look. I can tell his mind’s almost frozen over. There’s a little apprehension in his eyes, but no hostility. Too cold for that. He looks a few weeks away from death, maybe a little longer if he can scrounge up something from one of the dumpsters nearby. He’s proper skin and bones, and his clothes are sagging off his frame. All he’s got to ward away the conditions is a filthy blanket that’s littered with stains of all sorts. But he’s fresh. I can tell he’s only been out here a month at most. The more grizzled ones have scars and bruises, and a lot more hair on their faces. They’ve seen more, so they know more. And that makes them harder to get. “What’s up, mate? Sleeping it rough?” I spoke as casually as possible, flashing my warmest smile. One thing that’s hard to get right is making sure you aren’t being patronising. You never want to make them think you’re making fun of them. There’s no going back after that. “Who are you?” he mumbled, eyes half-closed. He was practically asleep, or at least on the cusp of consciousness. I knew I had to be quick, or risk losing him entirely. “My name’s Shelter. Pleasure to meet you.” Shelter. It’s got a certain ring to it, no? It’s what they’re all searching for, all the street people, what they all want the most. I’ve been getting used to it. Sometimes I write it on the back of old envelopes, like a signature. Or say it to myself in the mirror, practicing my smile. Good morning, Shelter. Hello, Shelter. How are you today, Shelter? You’re a handsome devil, aren’t you, Shelter? “I run the hostel on Brookfield Lane, just around the corner,” I continue. The man’s eyes lit up. “Hostel?” he whispered coarsely. “There’s a hostel?” “Yeah, mate. It’s for younger lads, like you. Part of the Fellowship Project. You might’ve heard of us.” “Any chance of a place to sleep? Maybe a warm meal? I tilted my head slightly, biting my lip. “Nah, not tonight. Too full up. Might be a space in the morning if you get there early enough.” “Oh…” He let out a deep sigh, staring down at the pavement. A few seconds pass as he ponders the idea. He glances up at the clouds a few times, most likely thinking about the long, cold hours ahead. “There’s a comfy sofa at my place, y’know. If you don’t mind roughing it,” I add. The light returns to his eyes instantly, and his mouth curves up a little into an almost-smile. “You serious?” “Deadly serious.” I flash another smile, nodding my head gently. “And I can make sure you get a place at the hostel, too. C’mon, you don’t want to be out here for much longer. The rats’ll come out soon. Vicious little creatures, they are. Proper vermin.” And that’s done it. He pulls himself off the ground, like an old lady, all frail-like, and we walk back down the soaking alleys, not saying a word to each other, him trotting weakly behind me. Soon enough, we get to the flat. He’s dripping wet and I stuff some old clothes into his hands. “Freshly-washed. Much better than those paper-thin scraps,” I say, gesturing to his torn jacket. He’s overjoyed, and I can see that little brain working away in his head, telling him he’s on the up and up from here on out. All thanks to some kind stranger. They’re all the same, the street people. They all think the same, like a hive mind. I can see it on their faces. He gets changed, and I put some soup on the heat. Its tantalising scent fills the flat within minutes, and the man takes a large sniff as he snatches it from my hand. He collapses limply onto the sofa and begins to wolf it down, gasping for breath between slurps. Now comes the fun part. I sneak up behind him just as he finishes the bowl, burping loudly and patting his stomach. He looks like he’s just about to drift off, and I grab his neck with both my hands. He barely opens his mouth before I twist it upwards with a satisfying snap. His body lands with a thump on the basement floor. Cruel? Selfish? I wouldn’t say so. Now he’s neither cold nor hungry. It’s not like anybody’s going to miss him, either. It’s practically mercy killing. But my work is never done. I could clean up a thousand disgusting bums like him and there would still be thousands more, plaguing the streets with their filth. Drunkards, crackheads, and criminals, the lot of them. Any regular person would be horrified at these acts, I’ve come to realise. If they ever found out, they’d call it murder. But it isn’t murder, not in the way they mean it to be. Killing for your country on the fields of some war-torn village isn’t murder. Hell, if you do it well enough, they call you a hero. So, if I dispose of a few drugged up, scruffy tramps weighing the nation down like an anvil, how am I a murderer? No, I’m the opposite. A soldier out of uniform, killing for his country. And I’m going to make a difference. The man’s body lies against the woman who came before, a meth-head prostitute in her 20s. They look sweet together. Every now and then I go back down for another look. Category:Cornconic Category:Mental Illness